Page 6 of Only Earl in the World (Taming of the Dukes)

“You look quite well, my dear,” Preston said, his pale blue eyes glinting in the light of the gas lamps as they stood on the edge of the ballroom, where they had been for the last hour at least, standing like statues. “That color suits you.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Briar smiled demurely at his lackluster compliment. The jejune pastel-pink colored gown wasn’t one of her favorites, but she knew he liked it. Probably because she resembled a fresh-faced debutante just out of the schoolroom.

The bodice went higher than was fashionable, past her collarbones and nearly halfway up her throat, and the fitted sleeves felt like arm-length manacles.

Each of the cascading layers of the skirt was embroidered with pink roses and ribbons.

It wasn’t a terrible dress; it just wasn’t her style.

Her preference ran to bold colors—lustrous golds, emerald greens, and sapphire blues.

Like the dark-blue eyes of a certain gentleman when they caught the light just right.

No, no, no .

Lushing’s eyes were nothing of note. Blue was an ordinary color. Prosaic, almost. Except when they were gleaming with humor and teasing wickedness, and their bottomless depths would tempt any maiden into carnal acts of depravity.

She would know…

Briar had pretended to be aggravated in Seven Dials the other evening, but in truth, their impassioned, indecent, and categorically invigorating interlude had been gratifying. So much so that she’d lost a boot over it. A smile tugged at her lips. Not a single regret…

She loved that he didn’t care about the unruly words that came out of her mouth, or the fact that she’d been dressed in men’s clothing, or even that she’d been alone, scaring the living daylights out of two ruffians.

Unlike other gentlemen, Lushing trusted that she was capable of handling herself.

That she wasn’t some simpering, swooning damsel to be rescued at every turn.

Though she secretly adored that he was so gallantly protective, while not undermining her autonomy.

In truth, when she didn’t run into him, it felt like something was wrong.

Her thoughts faltered. When had she started hoping to see him on her jaunts through the city streets?

Their rapport was so mercurial: hot, one minute, cold the next. And yet, she relished it.

Though that was neither here nor there since according to his sister, the rogue was finally ready to take himself off the marriage mart by proposing to Lady Penelope.

He wouldn’t be dogging her footsteps while she gallivanted about the West End playing soldier of the bodyguard anymore…

but focusing on his future bride. As he should be.

Briar ignored the odd, sharpened spike behind her ribcage .

Vesper had let slip that this ball was likely when her brother was going to ask the lady for her hand in marriage.

The news had hit Briar strangely, but there was no way that she was going to pick apart why she felt at sixes and sevens.

Lushing was at the very least a friend, and sometimes, not even that.

He was her best friend’s brother. He was her reluctant business partner.

And most days, he was her archenemy. Whether either of them tied the knot had no bearing on their professional arrangement.

Still, something deep inside ached with a peculiar feeling of loss. Not that the infuriatingly handsome earl had ever been Briar’s to lose.

Penelope was lovely, if one liked biddable, dainty, milk-and-water ladies, and the two of them made an excellent match.

As if they’d been summoned by her thoughts, the majordomo announced their names.

A vicious swarm of wasps formed in her belly when she peered up at the happy couple entering the ballroom at the top of the stairs. Her throat tightened.

Lushing looked dapper and entirely too attractive.

Penelope was a beautiful girl with glossy blond hair and rosy skin—the perfect foil to a gentleman like the tall, dazzling earl beside her.

She would undoubtedly give him a handful of starched, immaculately behaved, cherubic heirs.

Mirth bubbled in Briar’s chest. Whereas, if she and Lushing ever had the misfortune to procreate, their spawn would be wild and disorderly with rumpled grass-stained clothing.

The image of curly redheads with burnished gold-brown skin and gap-toothed smiles appeared before she could curb her thoughts .

Deuce it, why on earth was she imagining children with him ?

If anything, she should be thinking of heirs with Preston.

Of course she would never admit it to Lushing, but the thought of bedding the viscount was off-putting.

Their few perfunctory pecks had inspired little desire within her.

It was not the kind of omen she wanted for the marriage bed.

Deep down, Briar craved what the girls at Lethe talked about in hushed voices—lust, and hunger, and breathless cataclysms. She wanted to be transported, to have her body be played like a fiddle… much like the heroine in her stories.

Despite what she’d boasted to Lushing, she had no empirical evidence of copulation, but she knew about passion…

and the viscount was the opposite of a passionate man.

Coitus to him would be cursory. No doubt she would be expected to lie there and think of England.

A pulse of despondency rippled in her chest.

You chose this , she reminded herself. For good reason.

Well, at least she could enjoy her last few weeks of the season.

Her feet tapped to the music as the country reel that had started earlier grew more boisterous.

She’d give her left arm to join the dancers.

Anything was better than standing in silence like a mute marionette next to a man who seemed to begrudge anything fun.

“Do stop fidgeting,” came the brisk, low-pitched command.

“It’s music, my lord,” she blurted without thinking, peering up at her fiancé through her lashes. “Do you not enjoy the beat?”

She knew he wasn’t one for dancing—the viscount believed such pastimes, especially the waltz, were immoral and paved the way for sin.

Briar suppressed her eyeroll. Heaven forbid a man and a woman hold each other twelve inches apart dancing on a public dance floor.

Cue the scandalmongers! As her friend Nève, the Duchess of Montcroix, would say in a tone brimming with French sarcasm, quelle horreur!

“It’s uncouth,” he said. “The future wife of a peer should stand quietly and demurely, head bowed, and hands clasped like a virtuous and devout lady, not tapping her feet like an ill-mannered simpleton.”

Briar blinked. Head bowed and hands clasped…at a ball?

“Why? We’re not in a chapel,” she replied before she could stop herself.

That retort earned her a sharp stare, his disapproval obvious. “You are to be my wife and will conduct yourself as I see fit.”

She sucked in a breath to stop a scathing retort from leaving her lips.

Spending time with Lushing had evidently made her tongue looser than usual, not that she was blaming him.

She wasn’t. Briar could say the most ribald thing, and Lushing would never reprimand her or treat her like a child.

The scoundrel did not give a whit for respectability.

But Preston wasn’t the earl. Propriety was his entire personality.

Briar soothed her spark of temper. “Of course, my lord. Although in my defense, this is a ball, and people are expected to dance. I’ll stop fidgeting. You’re right, it is an unbecoming habit.”

He glanced down the length of his nose at her, pale gaze assessing her sincerity before he gave a decisive nod.

“In our marriage, I expect you to live up to your father’s station, Lady Briar.

You are the daughter of a peer and will be the wife of one.

” His mouth pursed, and Briar swallowed her sass—he’d been a viscount for all of five minutes.

She nodded demurely. “And if you expect me to keep your home in Bath, you will abide by my wishes. Obedience and piety are all I require.” His hand gripped her chin in an unbreakable hold that pinched, though outwardly, Briar knew it would appear to be a tender caress.

She forced her face to remain placid, despite the cruel fingers pressing into her jaw. “For your father’s sake.”

Ice slithered over her heart. Clearly, Preston meant the agreement he and her papa had made as part of the suit—her hand in marriage and an understanding that her childhood home in Bath would never be sold as long as they remained married.

It was not an entailed property but would be part of her dowry.

Her father wanted Briar to be settled, especially because after his death, the earldom would return to the crown without any male heirs.

Since her papa was an only child of an only child, without any male relatives, his title would become extinct.

Her half-brothers could not inherit since they were not related by blood.

And bloodlines in the British laws of primogeniture were a devil of a thing.

The Earl of Rubens would be no more, and the entailed estate in Essex would revert to the crown.

It was absurd that the English laws meant that women could not inherit their family’s property or titles.

In Scotland, female heirs could inherit both!

Some Scottish peerages had remainders allowing inheritance through women, either directly or through heirs.

Effie’s Scottish mother-in-law had been a peeress in her own right, before her marriage to the Duke of Vale’s father.

She still lived in the Highlands on her own ancestral lands.